


Sold for Endless Rue

by Violsva



Series: Not Pardon or Forget [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Break Up, M/M, Pre-Canon, University, Watson's Woes WAdvent, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 03:39:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13068324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: But youth, balancing itself upon hope, is for ever in extremes; its expectations are continually aroused only to be baffled; and disappointment, like a summer shower, is violent in proportion to its brevity.-- Letitia Elizabeth Landon





	Sold for Endless Rue

**Author's Note:**

> For WAdvent at [Watson's Woes](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/).

They’d closed the curtains the previous night, of course, but the window faced south and some morning light was inevitable. As it grew stronger Watson rolled over away from it, half awake, and found himself being kissed. Matters continued as they had the previous night.

Watson had gone to a day school. He’d heard of the filthy practises of boys at public schools, but never really connected them with his own infatuations on and occasional fumblings with the other students. But Tom Fitzwilliam had wide experience, at public school and elsewhere, and Watson had been benefiting enormously from it for the past week.

After, the sun was even brighter, and they lay tangled and sweaty on the sheets. Tom rolled over, giving John a good look at the muscles in his lean back, and checked his pocketwatch. “Lord,” he said, “it’s half past nine.”

“We’ve anatomy,” said Watson, jumping out of bed. He fumbled at the floor; Tom lit the gas and Watson started sorting out whose clothes were whose. There wasn’t time for much of a wash, and certainly not for him to go home and get a new suit. Tom’s rooms were farther from the University than Watson’s, but his landlady liked him and, he claimed, let him get away with almost anything. Still, it meant they had to run part of the way to the hall, and couldn’t talk on the way.

They entered the class at the back of the rush of students, and found the last pair of seats next to each other just as the room began to look crowded. The lecturer came in before they had finished sorting themselves out. But there were a few later students, and hopefully their dishevelment would go unnoticed. Watson felt like the rest of the room must be able to see the evidence of what they’d been doing on him, or for that matter smell it, but no one said anything.

“Damn,” he muttered, patting his pockets, as the lecturer started speaking. “I forgot my pen.”

“Use mine,” said Fitzwilliam, offering it with a smile. “I’ve a spare.”

Watson took it, hoping his blush wasn’t as obvious as it felt. It was a cheap rubber fountain pen, nothing to make him feel so elated. But at the end of class he tried to give it back, and Tom said, “Keep it,” casually, and Watson was glad he had another lecture to go to so he could turn away and hide his joy that way.

***

Watson didn’t dare invite Tom to his own rooms, but he didn’t have to. There were plenty of places they could go, and if some of them weren’t technically safe, he was sure they wouldn’t be caught, and they never were. Even in the middle of the Meadows in the evenings after Watson’s rugby practises, no one bothered them.

But Tom’s rooms were safest, and Watson almost felt like he lived there some weeks. They didn’t get much sleep there, but he never felt the lack of it. He was busy learning, and he’d sleep during the breaks. Maybe he’d convince Tom to come visit—or, better, Tom would invite him over. And another four years or so and he’d have his degree, and set up a practise somewhere. Somewhere close to wherever Tom had settled by then. He’d figure out how to afford it.

***

Watson was on his way to a late afternoon pathology lecture when he caught a glimpse of movement in an alleyway. When he first glanced over he thought it had been nothing, but a couple steps closer and a harder look showed that it was a man—two men, half concealed behind a jutting chimney base.

It was, in fact, Tom Fitzwilliam, his fine profile clear against the darkness, his hair blending into the shadows. And another man, his back against the wall, his face hidden, his closer hand clearly reaching into Fitwilliam’s trousers. Watson stopped where he was and stared.

They were—they were certainly—the other man moved his head into sight to kiss Fitzwilliam, his arm moving faster. It was Alistair MacDuff, who Watson saw at the pub sometimes. And Fitzwilliam was thrusting his hips against him—

Watson backed away from the corner and ran in the opposite direction. Tom—he had thought—class, he was going in the wrong direction, he would have to go the long way, around New College.

He got halfway there, and then realized that if he just turned right he could go back to his rooms. He wavered. He didn’t want to go to class, he didn’t want to be around people, and yet he didn’t want to think, either. He would go to his lecture and just listen and learn about—what was it? Pathology.

He went to the lecture, and sat down, and an hour later he stood again and left with the rest of the class. He didn’t remember any of the lecture.

Back at his lodging house, he didn’t say a word in response to his landlady’s friendly greeting. In his bedroom, he stood for a long moment, feeling things boiling up in his chest, unsure what would happen if he let them out. His throat hurt, and he was shaking, and his eyes—oh God, he wasn’t going to—

His eyes focused on the fountain pen Tom had given him, sitting on his desk. He strode across the room and grabbed it, his hand shaking so badly he could barely pick it up. He flung it across the room, and it clattered as it hit a corner and rolled under the bed.

***

He would still have to talk to Fitzwilliam about it. He couldn’t leave this, and he couldn’t ignore it. All he was likely to do was give Fitzwilliam a piece of his mind and storm off, but at least he would have done that. So he grabbed his arm the next time he saw him at the pub, and insisted on talking to him alone.

Fitzwilliam tilted his eyebrows in that way Watson had used to find alluring, and followed him to a corner. When they were alone Watson turned on him.

“I saw you,” he said. “With MacDuff.”

Fitzwilliam looked blank. “When?”

Watson stared at him. “I saw him jerking you off,” he snapped. Fitzwilliam nodded, as if it was nothing.

“What?” he said, when Watson glared at him. “Why are you angry?—Watson,” he laughed, “you’re not _jealous_ , are you? We’re _men_. I’m not going to marry you.”

“No, but we are—we were—”

“That’s how it works,” said Fitzwilliam. “I never said _you_ couldn’t do other men. That’d be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?”

“Yes. Look,” he said, seeing Watson was still furious, “you can’t fall in _love_ with a man. Love is for women, men are for sex.”

“I thought...” Watson started, and then stopped, uncertain.

“What did you think?” Fitzwilliam said. “We’re boys. We’ll both get married later, and be faithful to our wives then, and right now, before all that, we’re just sporting. Now is the time for it, and naturally a man wants variety and abundance before he settles down. That’s how it works.”

So there had never been anything to it. So Fitzwilliam had not even thought there might be—and admittedly Watson didn’t know any other men who were definitely in love, rather than just—just sporting. But he had felt—he still did feel—

“And we’re friends, of course,” said Fitzwilliam casually, as an afterthought.

He had to leave—he had to leave, or else punch Tom, or something even worse. He backed up, then shoved chairs out of his way as he left.

Outside, though, he didn’t want to go back to his rooms. That would mean he would be alone with this, his chest full of rage and nothing to do with it. Probably he would end up alarming his landlady, and then she would want an explanation, and that—he couldn’t bear that.

He headed north, to Old Town. He’d find somewhere to go where he could do something about his mood. Or he’d find someone.


End file.
